


The Way We Remember

by Cerulean_Phoenix7



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06 angst, Angst, Author Wrote This As An Exercise in Catharsis, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Funeral pyres, Funerals, Grief, Lots of Angst, Missing Scenes, Mourning Dead Lover, Secondary Characters: Podrick Payne, Secondary Characters: Sansa Stark, Secondary Characters: Tyrion Lannister, Set during 8x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulean_Phoenix7/pseuds/Cerulean_Phoenix7
Summary: Remembrance was a sword with two distinctly sharp edges: one of fondness, and one of anguish.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 35
Kudos: 40





	1. Part I: Request

**Author's Note:**

> I started this piece back in 2019 after season 8 ended, and after stopping and restarting work on it multiple times over the past year, I finally finished it! This was mainly an exercise in catharsis for myself to cope with my feelings regarding season 8, in particular the last two episodes. I also wrote this to add in some scenes that I thought were missing in 8x06.
> 
> One thing to note before reading this is that Jaime has already died before the start of this fic. The focus of this piece is Brienne and how she deals with the loss of Jaime (among other things) as the world moves forward. 
> 
> Thank you to aliveanddrunkonsunlight and Sehnsucht for the beta work on this! Also thank you to mala_ptica for input on my original idea!

The camp was busy with activity. Soldiers marched in lines like steel ants through the array of tents and carts as smiths worked to refine weapons. It was just past midday, and the sun had been shrouded behind a dense pocket of clouds since morning. Even in the dimmed light, the air was sticky with humidity. Brienne’s armor held the heat from her body like an unwanted cloak, and for the hundredth time that day she felt a drop of sweat roll down her back from the valley between her shoulder blades to the top of her arse. She did not enjoy the feeling. She suspected she would enjoy the moments ahead of her even less.

She stood outside Lady Sansa’s tent, one hand poised at her side and the other firmly gripping Oathkeeper. Sansa had sent for Brienne not long before the clouds spread their dull wings over the sky. Brienne had made her way from her own tent to her Ladyship’s, grateful that the mud beneath her feet smelled less like death than it had days earlier. With Bran made King and the unrest in King’s Landing seemingly over, Brienne had expected Sansa to give the order to march back to Winterfell.

That order had not yet come.

Rumors swirled like smoke through the camp in the days that followed Bran’s coronation, filling the air with talk. Lady Sansa’s men remained stationed before King’s Landing. Wading through their ranks, Brienne heard snippets of conversation as they lorded over their meals or honed their armaments to busy themselves. Most of it was the same. _Something_ had yet to happen.

Brienne parted the opening to the tent with a gloved hand and stepped inside. It was furnished with the items she would expect the Lady of Winterfell to carry with her, though hardly anything beyond that. Aside from a large feather bed and a single plush settee to her left, the only other item in the tent was a large wooden desk fashioned from oak and stained a deep brown. Behind the desk sat Lady Sansa, her eyes intent on the paper before her. A feather quill nearly as long as her arm twirled through the air as she scrawled out her words. Sansa looked up when she heard Brienne enter the tent.

“Ser Brienne,” she said. The feather quill stilled in her fingers.

Brienne’s shoulders stiffened under her armor. “You asked to see me, my Lady?”

Sansa’s eyes briefly flitted to the paper. “Yes.”

She stood from her chair, dropping the quill on the table. Her shoulders were free of her usual winter furs, but her chest and shoulders remained armed in the thick leather bodice that she had donned at Winterfell. The silver chain with its single solitary hoop hung motionless around her neck.

“Now that my brother has been made King, he will have need of a Kingsguard.” Sansa’s eyes met Brienne’s, as blue and powerful as the snows that had ravaged Winterfell only weeks earlier. “I’ve been told that the King plans to make you his Lord Commander.”

Brienne withheld a gasp. _No, surely not._

“My Lady,” Brienne began, “I don’t see how I can serve the new King when I am sworn to protect you and your sister.”

“Arya is more than likely gone from Westeros by now,” Sansa replied.

Brienne, puzzled, raised a concerned eyebrow and tightened her grip on Oathkeeper. “Gone?”

Sansa moved around from the rear of the table so that she was only feet from Brienne. “She wanted to see what is west of Westeros.”

“And you let her _leave_?” Brienne exclaimed.

Sansa’s expression hardened. “I do not command my sister. Even if I tried, I doubt she would listen. She can look after herself.”

Brienne felt a pang of cold dread spread through her veins. The image of Catelyn Stark, her eyes pale and empty, filled her mind.

“My Lady, there is no telling what beasts or foes lie in such distant lands—supposing there even _are_ any lands to find. Lady Arya may find something that even she cannot best.”

Sansa tilted her head. “She defeated the Night King. I can’t imagine something more powerful than him.” Sansa’s mouth pressed into a fine line, almost withholding something further in anticipation of Brienne’s response.

Brienne did not answer. A weight akin to an anvil had settled in her stomach, adding to the already impressive bulk of her armor.

Sansa let out a breath, her shoulders dropping. For a moment, Brienne thought she saw a glimmer of sadness in her Ladyship’s eyes.

“I trust that Arya will keep herself safe,” Sansa continued. “Perhaps one day she will return to Westeros and tell us what she has seen.”

Brienne swallowed. Her throat felt constricted, as though by a cord of rope. “And you, my Lady? I cannot protect you if I remain in King’s Landing.”

Sansa turned from her, returning to her position behind the desk. “The North will protect me. The war has rid us of far more enemies than friends. House Stark still has many allies that would take up banners at my command.” She placed her hands on the desk, her slender fingers resting on the polished wood. “I will be safe there,” she said.

Brienne chose her words carefully before replying. She felt the need to ask, the unquestionable desire to _know_.

“Will you not also be requiring a Queensguard, my Lady? As ruler of the North you must still have protection.”

“If the need arises, I shall find members from within my bannermen.”

The statement stung more than Brienne would allow herself to admit. The sudden strike of abandonment loomed heavily over her memory like a hawk, waiting to swoop in and peck at old scars. She felt the slightest tremble in her lips, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

 _I will not cry in front of Lady Sansa_ , Brienne thought. _I will not allow her to see this shame_.

Sansa; however, _did_ seem to notice. Her brow creased before raising towards the beginnings of her copper hair. She stepped away from the desk and strolled towards Brienne. When she reached the Knight, she placed a hand on Brienne’s arm.

“That was not meant as a slight against your services, Ser Brienne. You have served the North faithfully and honorably these past years. The Northerners do not forget those who defend our home, and they will understand if you remain to protect a Northerner who is far from home.”

Brienne swallowed her fear into an uncomfortable lump in her throat. “The North is not the only Kingdom, my Lady. There may be objection.”

“Which Bran will dismiss,” Sansa replied. She dipped her head briefly, averting her eyes from Brienne. Her mouth thinned into a frown for an instant before she met Brienne’s gaze once more. When she spoke, it was with the firmness and certainty that reminded Brienne of another formidable woman that she had known many moons ago.

“Should you accept the King’s offer, I will release you of your duties to me, free of consequence. The need for your service extends beyond the North now. Protect the realm, as you once protected the North. Defend my broth…the King, as you once defended me. But know this, Ser Brienne, you will always be welcome at Winterfell, and have a place at my table.”

Brienne held her tongue, feeling as if she had been unceremoniously exiled from said table without a single notice. Though Sansa’s words offered the promise of choice, Brienne found it unlikely that such an option would be present amongst the new King’s words. Only the foolish dared to defy a King, and they did not live long enough to do so twice.

When she found her words again, they were brief and quick, “Then I shall tell you of my response to the King’s request, should he make one of me.” Brienne’s fingers danced like a nervous foal against the hilt of Oathkeeper. She felt the sudden urge to flee from the tent and recuse herself from the eyes of any other in the Realm. Any morsel of hesitation she felt should remain cloaked like a castle shrouded in fog.

Sansa’s expression remained placid, but her eyes revealed a softness that Brienne was rarely privy to. “I’m sure you will.” She paused before nodding at the entrance to the tent. “You may take your leave. I need some time to collect my thoughts before dinner. I’m sure you would like to do the same.”

Brienne wasn’t sure if the statement was meant as a freeing path away from the conversation, or a subtle kick to encourage her departure. Rather than asking, she gave a curt nod to Sansa and muttered a “Yes, my Lady” before marching out of the tent.

***

The Northerners had committed a large tent to preparing meals. Women in thin shawls stood dutifully near the massive iron pots that bubbled and simmered with the evening’s meal. The air around the tent was heavy with heat and spices as the metal of large spoons _clanked_ against the sides of the pots.

After acquiring a bowl of the thin soup, Brienne settled herself outside her tent and began to eat. The broth was barely more than seasoned water, and the meat was tough, but the potatoes and carrots were tender. She had just bit into a large piece of potato when three men walked by. Each of them gave her a curt nod, and one acknowledged her with a “Ser” before carrying on.

Brienne watched them go for a moment. Perhaps they were Stark bannermen, and knew her from the battle at Winterfell? Still, others who had fought beside her in battle had never granted her such courtesies before. Brienne finished chewing on the potato in her mouth and focused on the remaining soup in her bowl.

After dinner, Brienne retreated into her tent. She set Oathkeeper against the edge of her small, yet sturdy wooden bed as she shed her armor. A rush of cool air from outside her tent met the skin of her jerkin, still damp with sweat. A shiver whisked down her spine in one moment, and the next was gone as if carried away by the same night wind.

It was not wind that made her blood turn to ice in the next moment. A voice, low and unwavering, uttered, “Ser Brienne.”

Brienne turned from her bed, her hand flying to Oathkeeper and drawing the blade. When she turned to the entrance of her tent, she found a man half her height standing before her. A dark wool cloak was draped over his shoulders and held together beneath his throat with a plain bronze fastening. His Hand pin was nowhere to be seen.

Brienne dropped her blade. “Lord Tyrion,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Forgive my intrusion, Ser Brienne, but this is something that could not wait until morning.”

Brienne returned Oathkeeper to its scabbard and dropped her arms to her sides. “And what exactly is this urgent matter?”

Tyrion’s expression grew soft and Brienne saw him swallow with no small ounce of discomfort before replying, “Jaime.”

The name hit Brienne like a blow from a greatsword, cleaving through her heart and spilling emotions that she had considered buried and resolved. Her throat and chest clenched, and she turned away from Tyrion when she felt tears prickling the edges of her eyes.

“What about him?”

“His body needs to be given proper ceremony.”

Brienne resisted the urge to scoff. A sound half-resembling a tired chuckle weaseled its way from her mouth instead. “Why? He betrayed two Queens to die with the one that never would have saved him.”

“Because we’re the only two people left in this world that love him.”

Brienne turned back to face him. Though she still had half of her armor on, she felt as if she had instantly been stripped of the remaining pieces.

“How did you…?”

Tyrion quirked a brow. “Knowing things happens to be a specialty of mine.”

“Did you know that he was going to return to King’s Landing? To…”

She couldn’t finish. To be with _her_.

Tyrion’s expression fell like a wave, and he glanced away from Brienne. A pause hung heavy in the air like a thick fog before Tyrion responded. “No, not at Winterfell. Jaime may have been a fool, but he was at best an honest one. If there is a single look that I will never forget, it is the one he had when he spoke of you.”

Brienne pressed her lips together and looked to the ground. How Jaime had appeared at Winterfell felt eons old, the memory of him smiling in the warm firelight of the Great Hall seemed to be plucked from another world altogether. Another, more recent memory shimmered into her mind, one of Jaime’s face between her hands and the cold night air nipping at her skin. Jaime’s words were short and unkind, their impact punctuated by the trot of his horse as he rode out through the gates of Winterfell.

She looked back up at Tyrion. “Looks can easily be fabricated. You spent a great deal of time at court, Lord Tyrion, I’m sure you are familiar with this.”

“We are not at court,” Tyrion replied. “Nor was Jaime in those moments.” He paused. Brienne saw the tension at the corners of his mouth, not entirely disguised by his unruly beard. His brows knitted together for an instant before parting again. “I understand your hesitation. If I were in your place, I would share it. But might you set it aside for a short while, in order to pay your final respects?”

“And where exactly would you suggest we _hold_ such a farewell?” Brienne asked, her words tinged with anger. “Pardon my candor, Lord Tyrion, but the Lannister name is not looked well upon at the moment. The King’s pardon extends to you and you alone. Should we be seen holding any kind of memorial for your brother, that may very well change.”

Tyrion did not pause. “Which is why I suggest we build the funeral pyre at the base of the Red Keep. There’s a small cove, out of sight of the smallfolk, that would be suitable. The tides don’t reach far enough in to drown the area, and it’s conveniently secluded.”

“How do you know about this place?” Brienne asked. Tyrion was infamous for his intellectual resources, but his sources were often left unchecked and unquestioned.

“Because when I was framed for my nephew’s murder, I found myself in the same cove after descending a few thousand steps down from the Red Keep. It is not a commonly known passage, but enough have made use of it that it remained.”

Brienne fell silent. She had witnessed the young King’s demise many moons ago, and the fallout that succeeded it. King’s Landing had transformed from a bustling center of people to a quiet, frightened catacomb that seemed to swallow up every person living within its walls.

She contemplated Tyrion’s request, turning the idea over in her mind. The last memory she had of Jaime was of him riding through the gates of Winterfell, seemingly pulled by the same hatred he claimed that his sister wielded. He had still been alive then, all flesh and blood and warmth, even in the cold of a Northern night. Brienne ran a thumb over the palm of her hand, recalling the way his beard had prickled her skin when she-

“The pyre will be set shortly,” Tyrion interjected, interrupting her thoughts. “If you wish to make any final remarks to Jaime, you know where to go.”

He then pulled the woolen hood back over his face and departed her tent in a whisper of fabric and shadow.

* * *

Next chapter should be out in the next week or so!


	2. Part II: Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Tyrion pay their final respects to Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to aliveanddrunkonsunlight and Sehnsucht for the beta work!

The path was narrow and uneven beneath Brienne’s feet. Jagged rocks jutted out of the sand at unforgiving angles and had caused her to nearly drop her torch several times. She uttered a rare curse as her hand slipped on the wet rock of the cliff face next to her.

_How much further is it?_

Ahead, the cliff receded, and the narrow strip of sand widened into a sandbank littered with rocks. Above, the ruins of the Red Keep loomed like a silent giant. A crescent moon hung high in the sky, casting the shore in pale light.

On the sandbank stood Tyrion Lannister. Beside him, a single torch burned brightly, illuminating his face. He was standing next to a pile of rock and driftwood that lay just out of reach of the waves, his hand resting on one of its shadowed edges.

As Brienne approached, the pile of driftwood and stones took a more defined shape. Timbers and beams from Gods knew where had been piled into an uneven pyre that was held in place by large boulders at its base. Atop it lay a body.

_Jaime._

The light from her torch revealed more of pyre, including Tyrion’s hand placed solemnly atop Jaime’s arm. Tyrion turned his head towards her when he saw the light of her torch, acknowledging her with a single nod. Brienne nodded in return, desperate to avert her eyes from the pyre for just a moment longer.

“Thank you for coming,” Tyrion said placidly as he stepped away from the pyre. “I…wasn’t sure you would.”

Brienne swallowed. “I wasn’t sure I was either.”

Tyrion’s eyes shifted back towards the pyre. “I’ll give you a few moments.” He turned away from her and slowly paced towards an outcropping of rocks, leaving his torch behind.

Brienne watched until Tyrion had disappeared, then she finally turned back to the pyre. The light of the moon and torches was limited, but it was enough for her to make out Jaime’s profile against the darkness. She stuck her torch in the sand and moved towards the pyre, Oathkeeper bumping against her hip with every step. The closer she got, the more defined his features became. She stopped only steps from the pyre, her boots sinking into the soft sand. In the moonlight, she could make out the bridge of his nose, the soft parting of his lips, even the gold of his right hand glinted softly. She would have thought him asleep if she did not know otherwise.

She let out a breath into the salty air. _Courage, Brienne_ , she thought, and stepped up to the pyre.

Jaime’s eyes were closed, and his hands had been folded over his chest. He wore no armor, only breeches and a leather jerkin. Brienne lay her hand on his arm, feeling the cool leather beneath her fingers. _Was this the same one as…_

She pulled her hand away when she felt the stiffness of Jaime’s arm beneath the jerkin. She had seen countless bodies in her time, but few had been of those she cared for. Renly’s death was still seared into her memory. A part of her was relieved that she had not been present to witness Jaime’s; another part cursed herself for not being there to stop it.

She reached her hand back out to his left, letting her fingers curl around the cold flesh of his hand. With her other hand, she reached up to his face and caressed his skin with her fingers. The skin was cold, but the stubble of his beard still prickled her fingers, just as it had the night that he…

Brienne stopped her movements, her throat growing tight again. She felt tears brimming in her eyes.

“Why did you leave, Jaime?” she whispered quietly. She cupped his face with both hands and pressed her forehead to his. For a moment, she expected to feel his arms wrap around her back, and for him to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear that everything was alright; but that was from a time lost to the past.

Brienne’s vision blurred, and she blinked quickly as a sob climbed out of her throat. “I would have kept you safe,” she whispered between sobs. She lifted her head to look at Jaime’s face, her hands still pressed against him. The thumb of her right hand swept against his cheek, feeling the tingle of stubble and the clamminess of his skin. He looked a breath away from peace.

A spray of salty mist hit her cheek. Brienne turned her face from Jaime to the open waters before her. The waves on the bay were rhythmic but steady. Ships would surely find favorable currents with them.

The waves made her think of Tarth. When she was young, she would go swimming after a hard day’s training, and feel the saltwater splash against her skin. The water had been cool and welcome in that moment. In that moment, Brienne found it a painful reminder of a future that had been decimated before it even took shape.

She would return home to Tarth one day; a home that Jaime would never see.

She turned her focus back to Jaime, running her fingers over his face. She was almost embarrassed at the amount of times she had imagined bringing him home to Tarth with her. At Winterfell, she had mentioned returning to Tarth when the war was won, and the Realm had settled. Jaime had smiled at her when she told him, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

 _“I’d like to go with you, if you’ll permit it,”_ he’d said.

Brienne had placed a hand, open-palmed, against his chest and said _“I may just insist”_ before kissing him again.

A half-choked sob escaped her lips as tears continued to fall down her face. She felt suspended between the shores of truth and disbelief, her heart a ship without sails to guide it. She traced his lips with the tip of her finger before pressing a single kiss to his forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered.

She wiped her tears from his face as she stood, resting her left hand on his shoulder one last time. When she glanced back at the torches, she saw that Tyrion had returned. She did not know how long he had been standing there. She steadied herself, and then walked over to him, the sand threatening to swallow her boots with each step.

“Are you ready?” He asked. Tyrion’s eyes were soft but seemed far away in that moment.

Brienne’s fingers fell on Oathkeeper. “No.”

Tyrion frowned. “Neither am I.”

Her eyes wanted to look at Jaime. She longed for one final glimpse of him before the world swept him away forever. She turned her head slowly, her chin almost to her shoulder before she caught herself.

No, she had to remain focused. She gave Tyrion a single nod and retrieved her torch from the sand. The flame crackled in her ear as she returned to the pyre. Her steps were heavy but measured, each one feeling more like lead than the last. She and Tyrion moved to opposite sides of the pyre, facing one another across the bridge of Jaime’s body.

Brienne swallowed. She felt her torch hand tremble and reached her other hand over to steady it. It had to be done. It _must_ be done. She cursed that she was only granted the gift of a sword hand and not one kissed by magic, would that she could will another, more pleasant scene than the one before her.

She watched Tyrion’s expression, his own torch rippling in the night wind. His mouth was cloaked in the curls of his beard, but his eyes were fixed on Jaime. He seemed as if he were somewhere else entirely.

“Tyrion?” she asked.

His eyes snapped up, as if caught in a dream. His mouth tightened into a flat line and he nodded, stepping forward. Brienne did the same but kept her torch aloft. Tyrion immediately pressed his torch into the driftwood, and the flames leapt onto the dry wood. Brienne slowly lowered her own torch, the light catching Jaime’s face one last time, and kissed the pyre with its flame.

The fire took to the wood instantly, crawling across the crags and crevices in the pyre until only a shadow of Jaime was visible. Brienne moved away from the pyre and rejoined Tyrion some feet away. They stood in silence for several moments until Tyrion spoke.

“Thank you, Ser Brienne.”

Brienne dipped her chin. “It had to be done.”

Tyrion turned his head to look at her. “Not for this. For _Jaime_. For giving him more happiness than the world had given him in all his life.”

Brienne felt a blush curl in her cheeks. She thought of one morning in Winterfell, well before anyone of note was due to rise, how Jaime had reached his hand out to caress her bare shoulder in the morning sunlight.

 _“I think I could get used to this,”_ he’d said as he trailed a scattering of freckles on her skin with his fingers.

She’d peeked a glance at him over her shoulder, _“Oh? I thought you hated the North.”_

Jaime had cracked a wry smile, his teeth almost gleaming. _“It’s growing on me.”_

The memory filled her with a brief warmth before flitting away, as distant as a star.

“Be that as it may, it was not enough to spare Jaime from this fate.”

“Which is by no fault of yours,” Tyrion insisted as he spun to face her. “Cersei was a cunning lioness, true to her name. So long as she was alive, she would have always had her claws in Jaime.”

“He seemed free enough of them at Winterfell,” Brienne said. “He could have stayed there; there was room enough for him.”

He shook his head. “Cersei had spies in every corner of the Realm. Put a knife to the right throat or gold in the right pockets and she could have had a dozen assassins over the walls of Winterfell without Sansa knowing.”

A worrisome pit formed in Brienne’s belly. As much as the notion troubled her, part of her knew with equal measure that he was right.

Tyrion glanced at the pyre for a moment. Brienne wondered if he would say something else, but then he strolled off towards a large rock that stuck out of the sand. Tyrion disappeared around the far side of the rock and returned with a long leather pouch tucked under his arm. He stopped in front of Brienne. He stuck his torch into the sand and took the pouch in both hands, untying the laces keeping it closed. When it opened, Brienne caught a glint of steel in the torchlight. The hilt of a sword stuck out of the fabric, the ruby in the centre of its grip set alight like a falling star.

Tyrion wrapped his hand around the hilt and pulled the sword free, letting the leather wrap fall to the sand. The sword nearly matched his height in length and looked ungainly large in his hands. Tyrion studied the sword for a moment, his left hand resting on the sheathed blade, before he looked up at Brienne.

“This is Widow’s Wail, pardon the name, it was not mine to choose. It once belonged to my nephew, though of late it was Jaime’s sword. As you might expect, as both Hand of the King and half a man, I have no use for it. I do not wish for it to sit in the castle bowels and collect dust for the next century, so I give it to you.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “I…I cannot.”

“You can,” Tyrion insisted. “You kept your oath to the Starks and to my brother. You defended the Realm against creatures of ice and darkness. You are a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Well, of the Six and One Kingdoms, anyway.” He coughed. “I can think of no one better suited to wield it.”

Tyrion extended his arms towards her. Brienne rested her hand on Oathkeeper. “I already have a sword.”

“Most of one,” he remarked. “You might recall that my lord father melted down Ned Stark’s old Valyrian greatsword to make Oathkeeper. With the remainder, he forged Widow’s Wail.” 

Brienne gingerly reached out and wrapped her hand around the hilt, lifting it from Tyrion’s grasp. The gold gleamed in the light from the pyre, glittering like sunlight. She gripped the sheath and pulled the blade free.

“Behold!” he continued. “Ice is born anew, if only after a fashion. The ancestral pride of House Stark, now in possession of its most loyal servant—Ser Brienne of Tarth. I can think of no outcome more fitting. And I have no doubt Jaime would say the same.”

Brienne met his eyes. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

Brienne nodded, running her fingers along the cool steel of the blade. A thousand memories sang to life from the sword. One, from the Great War, put her and Jaime back to back on the ramparts of Winterfell. Their swords had flashed through the night, slicing undead from the other as snow and smoke choked the air. It was the closest they had been to death and the greatest desire that Brienne had ever felt to live.

She looked back to Tyrion. “Thank you.”

They stood in silence before the pyre. Tyrion was the first to depart, plucking his torch from the sand and retreating along the beach towards the castle. Brienne lingered for much longer, watching the flames tremble over the pyre. When tears threatened to rise once more, she sheathed Widow’s Wail and marched back to the rocky path that she had traversed earlier. With a hand flat against the slick rock, she braved one final glance at the pyre, at Jaime. The fire looked akin to the flame of a hearth. A hearth in a bedchamber far from King’s Landing, in a time turned to ashes and swept away in the wind.

* * *

Last chapter will be up by the end of next week!


	3. Part III: Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Realm shifts to fill the gaps left by the war and those that fell during it. Brienne is left to make peace with her past as her future is laid before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is here!
> 
> Many thanks to aliveanddrunkonsunlight and Sehnsucht for the beta work!

The morning sang with the sound of swords as the sun crept over the shoreline and into the camps. Soldiers and smallfolk milled about, slowly rising like spring crocuses. The air was cool and dry and touched with the scent of dried leaves. Brienne felt like winter was ruffling its cloak over the land, offering a short reprieve before settling once more. She welcomed it none the less.

She had risen with the sun that morning, waking Podrick before heading to breakfast. After a bowl of thin porridge and a small piece each of hard cheese and chewy bacon, they made their way to the camp’s makeshift training yard to spar.

They used their real swords, having abandoned the wooden ones long ago.

Brienne waited for Podrick to strike first. He stepped forward and went for a high blow. She met him swiftly, blocking him. Pod reeled and swung down, and Brienne deflected him. She swung down, slashing her sword along a diagonal that would connect with Pod’s shoulder. He parried and aimed for her chest, only for Brienne to halt him. They continued their routine, Pod attempting to attack and Brienne deflecting, until Pod pulled his sword back, gripped the hilt with both hands and charged, a move that Brienne avoided with ease. When Pod had rushed past her, she slapped the back of his thigh with her sword. Defeated, Pod dropped his sword to his side and sighed loudly.

“You’re too aggressive,” she said.

Pod turned to her. “Isn’t that the point of a fight, Ser?”

“The point is to _win_. If you use all your strength within the first minute of battle, your opponent will strike you down with ease.”

Pod dropped his head and nodded slowly.

Brienne searched for words of encouragement. “Your form is much improved. Let’s keep working at it, shall we?”

Pod lifted his head, a soft smile on his face. He raised his sword and stepped towards her again.

Brienne raised her arm, her sword meeting his. He stepped back and went for a strike across her midsection, which she easily deflected. They parried, swords meeting in a rhythmic melody that sang across the yard.

The chorus of blades rang for several minutes before Brienne managed to knock Pod’s sword from his hands. Conceding defeat, he knelt to pick up his sword, and when his eyes glanced up from the blade in the muddy soil, he stilled for a moment.

Pod stood, his eyes fixed on something far past her. “Look.”

Brienne turned, her sword falling to her side. Out of the gaping ruins of King’s Landing emerged a large swath of smallfolk. Between them were carriages and carts, and horses and donkeys carrying myriad bundles of provisions. They kept to the Kingsroad, but as more joined the departing crowd, they spilled over onto the muddy ground. A dark cloud rose from the ground they tread on, and whether it was ash or dust Brienne could not say.

Pod stepped up next to her. “Where are they going?”

Brienne blinked against the emerging sunlight, at last peeking through the clouds that had shrouded the land since dawn. “The South, the North, perhaps into the Reach? We may never know.” She paused to sheath Oathkeeper. “A better question is why has the King allowed them to leave? King’s Landing stands in ruin and will need able bodies to rebuild it.”

“Maybe he already has the people he needs?” Pod asked.

Brienne shook her head. “It took an army to breach the city, and it will take an even greater one to rebuild it.” Her eyes flitted towards the ruins of the city gates. “They may not have the men to keep them here, not that there is much left for them.”

“It might be best for them to leave, for now at least,” Pod added. When Brienne didn’t acknowledge him, he continued. “They’ll come back one day. Not all, but likely many of them.”

Brienne let out a breath and nodded. “Yes, I suppose they will.”

“Will you be staying, Ser?”

The question caught her off-guard, and Brienne took longer than she would have preferred to answer. “I go wherever Lady Sansa does.”

She eyed the crumbling towers of the Red Keep. What little that remained of the tower walls clung to the staircases and archways that jutted from the rubble. The brick, once a sandy red, was now charred and burnt. High on the ruins, the shredded remnants of a banner fluttered in the air, its colours faded beyond recognition.

In truth, Brienne felt little desire to remain at King’s Landing. Though Tarth was a great deal closer to King’s Landing, Winterfell had become more of a home to her in recent months. She far preferred the sharp edge of winter’s sword than the memories she associated with King’s Landing; memories that were only amplified by the scale of destruction that had ensnared the city. Thousands of stones, regardless of where they fell in the carnage, had become chance grave markers for those who had not escaped.

A dull, piercing pang bloomed in Brienne’s chest, spreading upwards to wrap its grip around her throat. She turned away from the city. Wetness bloomed in the corners of her eyes, and she hastily blinked it away.

“That’s enough sparring for today, Podrick,” she said. She faced her squire, making sure to keep her eyes away from the city. “Get some rest.” Silently, she departed the sparring grounds.

* * *

Her tent was closer to Lady Sansa’s than to the sparring grounds, but the walk did not burden her. Many nights she welcomed it, allowing her thoughts to spread like wind in the air around her. She often found herself calmed by the time she had returned to her tent.

On other, more turbulent nights, the walk would turn her thoughts into ghosts that haunted her steps. She had learned to dismiss some of them, one of which had disappeared as quickly as a wild stag into a forest. Another lurked in the shadows, stalking her like a wolf. The beast came close but never startled her. Eventually that thought faded too. These thoughts had long been companions for her, tokens of choices she could never fully rectify. She wore them as a King wore his crown: with a heavy sense of duty.

As she approached her tent, another thought tinged with guilt bubbled to the surface. Brienne tried to push it away, but like a roaring lion it refused to back down. Her feet settled into the wet ground. Momentum seeped out of her body like air and for a moment, she had no will to continue.

_Why could I not stop this?_

Above her, a crescent moon was rising in the twilight sky. The day had bled into afternoon and then ebbed into a quiet dinner. The sun was slipping below the horizon, save for a few stray beams that snuck across the ground. One landed next to Brienne and caught a piece of fabric in its claws.

She stepped towards the crumpled cloth and flipped it open with her hand. A golden lion soaked with mud stared back at her. Brienne picked it up and touched the lion with her bare fingers, the mud staining her skin. In the distance, the remnants of the Red Keep loomed like a tower of bones, and Brienne wondered from which rib the banner had tumbled from. It looked much like the banners that had decorated the Lannister camp in the Riverlands countless moons ago, when she and Jaime had reunited under tenuous circumstances.

Brienne rolled the banner into her hands and made for her tent. Once inside, she set the ruined Lannister banner over the slim arm of the single chair in her possession. She wiped her muddied hands onto her breeches before divesting herself of her armor. Each piece was shed with care and diligence in motions that had become as natural as breathing. Afterwards, she set Oathkeeper against her bed.

Her back to the chair, she studied Oathkeeper’s hilt. The golden lion in its pommel glared back at her, its mouth pulled back in a delighted sneer beneath of the glow of its ruby eyes. She could slice that banner to pieces in a single stroke.

“Ser?”

Brienne whirled. Podrick stood in the entrance to her tent.

“Is this not a good time?”

Brienne turned away from her sword. “No, it’s quite alright, Pod. What is it?”

Podrick stepped into the tent, his movements tentative like a shy rabbit. He held out his arm towards her, something crumpled in his hand. “One of the Stark men gave me this. He said you would want to see it.”

Tension curled into her shoulders and face. Was this another ill-fated Lannister crest that someone was sending her as a cruel jest? She took the squashed lump from Podrick’s hands. It was soft and light, save for the mud that spattered its surface. Brienne felt a needle of dread prick her stomach when she saw the blaze of crimson on the bundle between her fingers. She pulled it open with both hands.

On the banner were twin suns and crescent moons on a field of quartered sapphire and crimson.

She felt her heart in her throat. “Pod…”

“Um…yes?”

“The man who gave you this, where did he find it?”

Her squire shrugged, shook his head. “He didn’t say. Somewhere on the battlefield would be my guess.”

Brienne traced the outline of one of the crescent moons with her finger. She hadn’t known that Tarth’s banners were called to this fight, though Gendry Baratheon’s recent ascension to Lord of Storm’s End offered the most likely explanation. It had been a long time since she’d heard news from Tarth, and longer still since she had heard from her father. She had hoped that Tarth’s location would spare it the brunt of the war with the dead or pardon it from the reach of Cersei’s wrath.

She wondered if any of her father’s men had survived. Her father had long outgrown his battle years and his venture into any fight would be nothing short of suicide. Tarth was small, and its army was not particularly grand, but still its soldiers had taken up arms to join the forces at King’s Landing. Much like the great houses and their banners from every corner of the realm had done to face the Lannister horde. Tarth, though wrapped in ocean rather than land, was as much a part of the Realm as any other region.

Now that realm teetered on the precipice of disaster. King’s Landing, the thrumming heart of Westeros, lay dormant and still. If it was not restored with due haste, the rest of the Realm would wither in its absence.

She looked from the banner to her squire. “Go back to the man that gave you this. I want you to find out if any soldiers from Tarth survived the battle.”

Pod nodded. “Of course, Ser.” He turned to leave, but his feet caught part way through the motion and he made an awkward step to steady himself. His eyes were fixed on the chair, where she had hastily tossed the ruined Lannister banner.

He squinted and titled his head. “Ser, is that a…”

“A Lannister banner? Yes, it is,” she said, cutting him off. “I found it in the mud outside,” she added quickly. She crossed her arms and turned away from Pod, tucking the Tarth banner under her arm.

“It’s alright to grieve him, my Lady,” Pod added softly.

The words to correct him rose in her throat, but she quickly silenced them. “I think I’ve done more than enough of that for a while.”

She heard Podrick step towards her. “Maybe, but that doesn’t forbid you from speaking of him.”

Brienne’s stomach dropped. She glanced over her shoulder at Podrick before turning fully to him. “What makes you think I want to speak of him at all?” The remark made Pod visibly withdraw, and Brienne instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, the past few weeks have been…trying.”

Pod drew his lips together and nodded softly, his eyes falling to the ground. “The night that he left…when I found you in the courtyard. I asked myself what could bring a man who had risked everything to reach Winterfell only to return to what seemed like the furthest thing from a home.” He looked up at her. “I never once asked myself what you did to make him leave. Because the truth of it is that you did no wrong.”

A smile flitted at the edges of her mouth before disappearing into the well of her sorrow. She was grateful for Pod’s compassion, but it failed to lessen the sting of Jaime’s departure, which had pulled her heart open like a bloody sail with no wind to catch it. “I thought I knew the man he was,” she said, strolling over to the chair to pick up the ruined Lannister flag with her left hand. She held it next to the Tarth banner, eyeing the space between them. “I thought he had shed the armor his life had burdened him with, but it seems that even he couldn’t release himself from it.”

“We all did,” Pod added. “When he stood in front of Daenerys Targaryen and swore to fight for the living, I think most of us in the room believed that he had finally deserted Cersei.”

Brienne’s mouth went dry at the mention of the late Lannister queen. She had only encountered Cersei once, at a wedding so long ago it felt from another age entirely. Cersei had fixed her with a piercing stare so damning she felt as if she were on trial.

Her sole question—Do you love him? had made Brienne’s palms damp with sweat and her heart beat into her throat. She had hoped desperately that her face hadn’t betrayed her. She never discovered if it did.

Brienne rubbed a patch of mud from the flag, revealing the face of a roaring lion. “I wish I could have convinced him to stay,” she whispered.

Pod didn’t move towards her, but the softness in his voice felt near to an embrace. “You can’t blame yourself. Ser Jaime respected you, and it is no fault of yours that he made the choice that he did.”

Brienne leaned against the support post behind her, swallowing her own regret into her body. She wet her lips with her tongue, the skin dry and cracked, and met Pod’s eyes. “That doesn’t negate that he made the choice, Pod.”

Podrick took a few steps toward her, still giving her space. “No, it doesn’t. I try to remember Ser Jaime as what seemed, at least to me, like the best version of himself. And that was the knight that rode North to fight with the living, with no army behind him.”

Brienne swallowed. She could clearly picture Jaime in Winterfell, his long cloak brushing the soft snow while white flakes dappled his beard. The air around him had gone white from the cold as he laughed.

“That’s the Jaime I prefer to remember as well,” she said. “But that memory feels tainted now, shadowed by the decision that he made.”

Pod’s face fell at her words, and she wasn’t sure if his sadness was for her or himself.

“Well,” he said, “I hope that one day it feels less so.”

Brienne nodded. “Thank you, Podrick.” She felt the weight of the banners in her hands, squeezing the fabric between her calloused fingers. “I think I’d like to be alone now.”

Pod nodded. “Of course, Ser. I’m never far if you need me.”

“I know, thank you.”

As Pod disappeared with a whirl of his cape, Brienne held the two banners in her hands together, the golden lion kissing the silver crescent moon.

* * *

Night had swept across the sky like the wings of a raven long before Tyrion made his second trek to the sheltered cove at the foot of the Red Keep. It had been a mere two days since he had been there last, for altogether the same grim reason.

On the beach, where black waves crashed against the shore, a single pyre stood alone in the darkness. The light from Tyrion’s torch touched the edge of pyre, illuminating the shapes and forms in thin outlines. He stood alone on the beach, having requested no one else accompany him.

Atop the pyre lay the body of his late sister, Cersei Lannister. She was draped in a silk dress the colour of onyx. Her blonde head, for once in a long while, was devoid of a crown. She had been pulled from the ruins of the Red Keep just as Jaime had, though Tyrion had purposely omitted her from the ceremony for his brother. Concealing the body, and moving it down to the shore, was made easy by plying the right hands with enough gold.

The moon was shrouded in thick grey clouds, casting the waves in splashes of white light where it managed to peek through. The wind, faintly wailing, rustled Tyrion’s beard. The flame of his torch rippled, disturbed by the wind.

In the wavering firelight, Cersei’s placid face seemed to catch a wicked smile, and for a moment Tyrion feared she would open her eyes and brandish that sickening smile on him. Shadows danced across her face for a moment, rolling over the curve her cheekbone, before the flame finally settled. Tyrion felt gooseflesh rise on his neck.

The sight was altogether different from the last time he had seen Cersei. Namely, she had been alive in their previous encounter. High on the parapets of the city wall she had stood with the cursed remains of what had once been Gregor Clegane, and without a single flinch in her expression she had ordered the execution of Missandei, one of Daenerys’s most trusted friends.

No matter how much wine Tyrion had drunk after that, he had never been able to erase the grim image of Cersei’s wicked smile from his mind. On that day the space between himself and Cersei was far greater than the land in front of the city gates.

Tyrion inhaled and squared his shoulders. He took one last glance at the pyre before tossing his torch onto it. Fire spread across wood and cloth with fervent speed, engulfing the pyre quickly. Through the flames, Tyrion could see the profile of his sister, and knew that she was not smiling.

He stood solemnly watching the pyre for a few moments, and then turned and walked back up the beach, leaving the pyre to burn alone in the darkness.

* * *

Brienne moved her quill decisively, dipping it into the inkpot before scrawling her next words across the parchment. It had been months, possibly more than a year, since she had last wrote to her father. It was a monumental task to not fill her letter with details of where she had been and what she had been doing, but she settled for a few choice phrases that would give her father a sense of what had transpired without robbing him of a good night’s sleep.

Pod had found the man that gave him the Tarth banner, and along with him, a few Tarth bannerman. A small troop, nothing more, but enough to get a message to her father when they sailed back home.

“Ser Brienne?” A voice inquired.

Brienne looked up from her parchment to see a man in Stark colours standing at the entrance to her tent. “Yes?” she asked.

“The King would see you, Ser,” he replied.

Brienne studied her parchment, eyeing the small gap at the foot of her letter that needed inscribing. Brienne tapped the stem of the quill with the side of her finger and scrawled out the last lines before signing. She set the quill down next to the parchment and stood from her chair.

“Let’s not keep the King waiting,” she said. The Stark man nodded and followed her out of the tent.

On the table that Brienne had sat at moments ago, the parchment lay drying in the warm morning light. In bold, black ink were the words:

_One day Tarth will have need of me, but that is not today. Presently, the Realm has need of me, and I believe it best to heed that call. I will not abandon our home, so I must protect it from afar. By protecting the Realm, I continue to protect Tarth._

_Should you have need of me, all you must do is to send a Raven to King’s Landing, and I will come. Tarth is my home, and it must always have an Evenstar._

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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